What is my mother like? Perhaps she is a bespectacled story weaver knitting tales that stretch the imagination. That would explain my itch to write. What if she is a food critic wielding a pen dishing out opinions and parrying rebuttals. That would explain my desire for food. What if she is a state- of-the-art Neurologist stretching the frontier of the dream state. That would explain my desire for sleep.
But what if she isn’t.
What if she sleeps all day, drinks sake all night, doesn’t miss me, forgets to kiss her husband, doesn’t have a husband needs her sons help, is throwing away another child. One of my siblings. How many sisters do I not know? How many brothers have slipped between the cracks? My yellow mother won’t ever know me. I don’t want to know her.